Shadows of the Past
by Ladyhawke 620 - airwolf addict
Summary: So what exactly was Archangel like before he became Deputy Director of the Firm, and who would he have been if he'd never met Moffet? Story set in timeline prior to the creation of the Airwolf Project.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - Story contains an original character from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Additional characters belong to Ladyhawke 620.

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_Introduction - This story is set in the timeline before the creation of Airwolf by Charles Henry Moffet. It raises the question of what would Michael's life have been like should he and Moffet have never crossed paths. Written 21 years ago, (1987)when I was 16, it is a little rougher than the current fare that I am writing but hopefully, still for a short story worth giving a go. In the episode, "One Way Express" Michael asks Hawke the question about Sonya, "If her name were Gabrielle, what then?" and it got me to wondering, who might've been Archangel's Gabrielle._

_Hope you enjoy, Ladyhawke 620_

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Prologue -

May 17, 1964

Pain and grief clawed at her heart, crushing it in a merciless grip. How could he be gone? His sweet husky words of love still rang in her ears, as bright and fresh as yesterday. Even now, she could hear the soft rasp of his laughter as it rang out with hers.

"Oh, Gavin," she whispered, "you can't be gone." Numbly, she clutched a wilting yellow rose in nerveless fingers. "I still need you. I…" Shaking her head in denial, she stared sightlessly at the throng that surrounded her.

A shove from behind, firm and hard in the middle of her back, sent her stumbling forward like a sleepwalker. Dazedly, she glanced around, the voices around her echoing as if from a distance.

The barest flicker of movement caught her eye and she looked up to see Michael staring at her with tortured blue eyes. Rain dripped from his hair, trickling down his cheek as they faced each other.

"No!" she screamed. "No!" the word ripped from her throat as mindlessly she launched herself at the casket. Sobbing hysterically, the rose she held fell from her fingertips unnoticed. Futilely, her fists beat against the polished wood, its surface cold and satiny beneath her hands. Slowly, slowly, she slid to the ground beside it even as she fought against the cold reality of the truth. Gavin was dead.

Shocked silence seemed to rule the throng of mourners as they stared at her in a mixture of horror and pity. For what seemed an eternity, no one moved and then the murmurs began, chaos reigning the scene. To no avail, the pall bearers tried to comfort her, to pull her away from the casket. Limply, she collapsed in their arms, her body a sagging weight.

Cursing viciously, Michael shoved his way through the crowd, pushing more than one grey-hued mourner out of the way as he did so. Half-angrily, he fought his way through the crowd to where the casket lay, and Alex.

Reaching her, he knelt by the casket gathering her into his arms. "Come on, Alex, let's go," he muttered, trying to pull her to her feet.

"No!" she retorted furiously.

Sighing, he tried again, wrapping her closer in his arms. "It's over. Gavin's dead, and there's nothing you or I can do to change that no matter how much we might wish otherwise. Leave it, Alex. You've got to let him go."

"No!" she ranted, pounding her fists against his chest. Struggling, he fought to grab her wrists as she fought him, her nails raking his skin like daggers, and then abruptly even that brief passion was gone. She wilted like a trampled flower in his grasp.

Pulling her to him, he rose slowly; her body a limp weight in his arms as he stood. For an instant, her additional weight in his arms threatened to fell him and he staggered as pain clawed agonizingly at his bad knee. Then, abruptly he straightened as if the moment had never been and turned on his heel to stalk through the throng.

Glittering, his eyes dared any of them to stop him. And glancing at his face, most of them immediately decided they didn't want to. With startled, silent concordance, the mourners parted as one before Michael as he strode proudly into the graying rain, Alex's long red hair streaming wetly over his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

(Two months later)

July 1964

The rain continued to pour down. Heavily dripping off the roof, it landed with slow, never-ending plops in the stream that used to be her flowerbed. With a sigh, Alex turned away from the rain streaked bay window and raked a trembling hand through her already tumbled hair.

Pacing the length of the room, she flung herself down on the sofa and poured herself another drink. Taking a gulp, she pressed the icy glass to her throbbing temples and closed her eyes wearily.

"Bam, bam, bam!" came the immediate pounding on the door. Jerking up in surprise, she felt the whiskey in her glass stream wetly down her arm. Cursing, she slammed the glass down to the table with an irritated smack as she glanced around for a towel or rag, only to find none.

The pounding came again within seconds. "What now?" she muttered in annoyance at the door, wincing in pain as she did so.

"Open the door, Alex! It's me, Michael!" yelled a deep male voice in almost equal frustration from outside. "Come on, have a heart! It's pouring out here."

In silence, she glared balefully at the sturdy oak door, wondering if she dared ignore him. Just how long until he gave up and went away?

"Alex," he called, evidently sensing her silence as a bad omen. "I'm getting soaked out here."

"You should've thought of that before you made a trip all the way out here," she answered remorselessly.

"Enough, Alex!" he shouted in frustration. "Do you stop behaving like a child and open this door, or would you rather I find my own way in? I will you know."

Grudgingly, she had to admit the truth in that statement and moved to unlock the door. "Alright, alright," she replied. "You win, just hold on a minute."

Succeeding at last in opening the stiff lock, she stepped back, opening the door just enough to let him in. "Well, what do you want?" she asked bluntly, eyeing with distaste the puddle of water he was leaving on her floor.

"My, but I'm glad to see you too," he replied, a grin tugging sardonically at his mouth.

"Get to the point, Michael," she snapped. "Obviously, you wanted something from me or you wouldn't have come all the way out here in the middle of the worst storm we've had in who knows how long."

"I couldn't just be concerned about your welfare?" he asked innocently, amusement lighting his eyes.

For a moment doubt tugged at her heart and shame at her attitude assailed. Then abruptly it was gone, as a mask of impartiality slid into place across her features. "You?" she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "I rather doubt it."

"Is your opinion that low of me?" he asked, only half-teasingly. "Or just of men in general?"

"Both probably," she replied with a humorless laugh. Turning, she closed the door behind both of them before leading the way across the room. "Come on in, Michael. Since you're here, I might as well hear what it is that you have to say."

Waving him to have a seat in the chair across from her, she flung herself back down on the sofa facing him. Gathering her feet up under her, she waited.

Frowning, he shrugged out of his jacket even as he took the offered seat. "Little early in the day for you, isn't it?" he asked, nodding towards the half-empty whiskey glass sitting on the coffee table.

"Not really," she answered, mentally adding - especially when you haven't slept in days. "Don't worry, Michael. I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself." Shifting position, she pressed on, "So, just why are you here, Michael? If it had been purely concern, you could've just called and saved yourself the trip."

"True," he replied. "But would you have answered?"

Frowning, she set the glass down. "I don't know," she answered truthfully, feeling she owed him at least that much. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other and then dropping her eyes, Alex broke the contact. "So-ooo," she drawled. "You never did say why you were really here. Surely, it isn't because you make it a habit to go around harassing lonely women?"

"Only you," he replied, with a grin. "Only you." Picking up the whiskey decanter from the bar, he held it to the light for a moment admiring the cut of the crystal.

"Have a drink," she offered wryly, even as he finished pouring a glass of the sparkling amber liquid. Turning and raising the decanter, he offered to top off her drink as well.

Mutely, she shook her head.

"Sure?" he asked. "You always did have extraordinary taste in liquor."

"You would know," she said sardonically, eyeing the glass in his hand. "Thanks, but no. I think I would prefer to have all my thinking faculties in full working order around you."

Tilting his head back at that, he roared. "Really, Alex, if I didn't know better I'd think you didn't trust me."

Shifting on the sofa, she pulled her over-sized ivy colored sweater over her jeaned knees. Leaning her head back, she raked a hand through the fiery locks and looked straight into his pale blue gaze and replied, "I'm not so sure I do."

"Is that the truth, Alex?" he asked, abruptly sober.

For a moment, she simply stared back at him, only to finally drop her own gaze, uncertainty evident in her green eyes. "Good question," she whispered huskily. "The truth is, I don't know exactly what to think. Let's just say you make me more than a little wary, Mr. Coldsmith-Briggs."

"Fair enough," he sighed, rubbing his chin. "I guess I deserve that, coming from you." In silence, he paced over to the bay window, limping somewhat as he did so. The bullet wound he'd taken on a mission several months back was still plaguing him and he was beginning to wonder if it'd ever heal.

Between them, the tension grew like a brewing storm, before he finally found the words to answer her earlier question. "The truth, Alex. I came for the truth. I want to know what really happened over there in Menongue."

"Read the report I filed, Michael!" she snapped, the uneasy truce between them abruptly broken. "I don't have the inclination or patience to play twenty questions with you!"

"I read the report, Alex," he gritted through set teeth, barely managing to control his rising temper. "Just why do you think I'm here?"

"To be quite honest?" she asked, her tone like honey. At his answering glance, she spat, "I really don't care! You sent us over there, Michael and the only thing it accomplished was getting Gavin killed. How do you expect me to feel about you?"

Shoving a trembling hand through her long red hair, she jumped up from the couch to pace the length of the cabin. Twice, she paced the length of the room before she turned on him like a caged lioness. This time though, her voice was frighteningly empty and flat. "All I know is Gavin is dead. Isn't that enough for you?"

"No," he stated baldly, mourning his friend. "And I would hope that isn't enough for you either…" he continued, feeling suddenly ancient as if he'd seen far too much of life.

"I'm sorry, Alex," he said, shifting his weight off his injured leg. "You must surely know I never meant for Gavin to be hurt, much less killed."

Mutely, she stared at him, her soul in her eyes, wounded and needy. Wordlessly, she begged of him some token of comfort and inner peace.

Unable to offer her any, he had to turn away. "The fact of the matter is," he stated not looking at her, "I came to ask your help." Uneasily, he waited, the firelight glinting on his sun-streaked dark blond hair.

"My help?" she repeated, in confusion wariness in her eyes. "For what?" Idly, she wondered when the silver had started to thread its way in among the darker strands. Surely it hadn't been there when last she'd seen him. Yanking her thoughts back to the present, she asked him again. "For what, Michael?" this time though the hostility that had been in her tone before was gone, replaced only by a cautious curiosity.

"I'm going to Angola, Alex," he replied. "I need someone who's been in Menongue before, someone who can help smooth the path. To ease the way, if you will…"

"Ease the way??!!" she yelped. "You've got to be kidding! The only thing the insurrectionists would consider me good for is target practice. Not exactly the skill one usually seeks out in a diplomat."

"I need you, Alex," he said quietly.

"Well, I don't need you, Michael," she stated emphatically. "I'm not going!"

Limping back to the sofa, Michael sat down heavily and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Leaning back, he rested his head wearily on the back of the sofa cushions as he stared up at the ceiling with world-weary blue eyes.

"The government there is in the throes of being overthrown," he stated emotionlessly, his voice as impassive as his words. "Our embassies there have already been ousted and quite a few of out agents there killed as traitors to the government."

Feeling vaguely ashamed, Alex whispered, "I'm sorry," reaching out to touch his arm with a comforting hand.

Oblivious, he continued. "It's kinda ironic if you stop to think about it. Traitors to the government, and yet, there is no government. Rather hard to betray something that doesn't exist, I always thought."

"So, what is it that you think I can help you do?"

"Find out where the leak is in the embassy, or what passes for it these days. Someone there is selling us out wholesale. Killing off more than a few members of my department in the process."

"How many?" she asked, having to ask, yet hating herself for doing so.

"What difference does it make?" he bit out, suddenly as angry and defensive as she had been. "Even one is too many."

"Giselé is there, isn't she?" Alex asked, a horrible premonition filling her.

"Was," he said flatly. "She died during the revolt."

"Oh, Michael," she sighed, letting go of her own anger towards him for a moment. "I'm so sorry. I know how much she meant to you."

For a long moment, the ensuing silence stretched between them, the only sound that of the rain pouring down outside. Despite her own anger and anguish, even Alex could not deny that Michael had suffered. Numbly, she searched for the words to say to him.

But before she could find them, Michael spoke again. "They killed her as an enemy of the state. And as such, lined her up and executed her before a firing squad - after they had "questioned" her. Truth be known, at that point it was probably a mercy."

Hurt by his cold words, Alex had to nonetheless acknowledge the truth in them. All too well, she remembered how the insurrectionists "questioned" prisoners of state. Even now, she could not suppress the shudder that ran through her at the memory. No matter how indifferent Michael might seem, she knew he had not been spared any of the details of her death.

For a long time, the room remained silent. Gradually, the evening shadows and chill crept in from the corners of the room to slowly fill it with a darkness even deeper than that which they both held in their hearts. The only light that remained was the pallid flickering of the flames in the fireplace as it too gradually died in the darkness.

"All right, Michael," she sighed. "You win. I'll go with you."

Complete silence greeted her words, dragging out until at last she wondered if he'd even heard her. Then, just as she was about to rouse herself for a second painful attempt, he spoke. "I'll contact you with the details as soon as they are finalized." And then, acting as if nothing of any real importance had taken place, he rose to his feet to leave, levering tiredly to his good leg as he did so.

Saying not a word, he limped to the door, pausing beside it for a moment before he finally opened it. "Thank you, Alex," he whispered hoarsely, bowing his head and then he was gone.

Trying to sort out her own jumbled thoughts, she wearily massaged her temples. Already, second thoughts were setting in with a vengeance. Did she dare trust Michael? It all seemed so strange… Giselé dead. Thinking of her arrogant confidence, she found it hard to believe. They'd never been close, but she'd had a healthy respect for her anyway. And she couldn't deny the pain she'd seen in Michael's face tonight.

Whatever their differences, the past couple months had been difficult on him too, she had to admit, if only to herself. Even now, she could still see the glimmer of the firelight highlighting the silver that was beginning to thread its way through the slight wave of his dark blonde hair. Surely, that hadn't been there before Angola, had it?

"Oh, Michael," she sighed. "Why did you have to come back into my life? Why?"


	3. Chapter 3

Squinting into the late afternoon sun, Alex gave the man beside her a tentative glance. Impassively, he continued to stare straight ahead, piloting the helicopter as if it were merely an extension of his own body. Occasionally, he would drop his gaze to glancingly check over the flight instruments spread out before him in the cockpit. Either he hadn't noticed her surreptitious glance towards him, or he was ignoring it. Unfortunately, she really couldn't tell which.

Outside, the scenery flew by as the helicopter skimmed low over the surface of the river below; the force of the rotor blades creating a wake beneath them on the water. Underneath them, the miles fell away as if they'd never been, as silent as the whisper of eagle's wings on the wind.

Gradually, the evening sun died away in the sky to leave behind only the inky blackness of night. In its place, a quiet chill filled the cockpit of the helicopter as they left the peace of Alex's home far behind. Expertly, Michael guided the helicopter through the darkness while Alex sat beside him in anxious, silent unease feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her entire twenty-eight years.

"How far?" she asked at last, unable to bear the silence a minute more.

In surprise, he started, almost as if he'd forgotten her very existence beside him entirely. "Sorry," he replied visibly dragging his thoughts back to the present. "What was the question, Alex?" he asked with an apologetic look.

"How far?" she repeated, trying to stifle the annoyance that crept through her.

"Another couple hours at least," he replied with a weary sigh, as he glanced at the metal-banded watch on his left wrist.

Unable to think of anything else to say, she subsided back into uncomfortable quiet for a few minutes, until her tattered nerves could take the silence no more. Unthinkingly, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Do you still miss her, Michael?"

"Miss who?" he queried in momentary confusion.

"Giselé."

For a long moment he didn't answer and she wondered if she'd pushed their uneasy truce too far. Then he gave an uncomfortable laugh. "Yeah, I still miss her, Alex. Does the missing ever really end?"

"I don't know," she sighed, critically inspecting her nails, as if suddenly they were the most important thing in the world. Nervously, she flexed her fingers in her lap. "Sometimes I wake up, and it's all like a dream, something that has happened to somebody else. I'll try to picture his face or something he said, and I just can't. And other times, no matter how hard I try, I can't forget. I don't know which scares me more - the possibility of forgetting him, or the thought I might never be able to."

He frowned, his own guilt weighing heavily on him. Mostly he just tried to forget. The losses working for the Firm just seemed to keep mounting up. There was no going back now; he wondered if there had ever really been.

Her next words yanked him back to the present.

"Are you angry? At her I mean?"

"Angry?" he laughed, a little bitterly. "Would it do me any good?" Grimacing, he shifted with a sigh. "No," he said, blue eyes glancing at her briefly. "At least, not at her. Fate, yes sometimes. The twisted politics over there, that got her killed - every waking minute. If anything," he said cynically, "I have myself to blame to a large extent for sending her over there where I knew her life would be in danger. But, angry at her, no. She didn't choose to die. If anything, she would've chosen the opposite."

"She knew it was always a possibility, Michael. She chose to be there."

"True," he sighed. "But it was her job and one she took very seriously whether I always liked it or not. I couldn't have not sent her and kept her love. She would've resented me telling her what she could and could not do with her life. The only problem is, I sometimes wonder if my selfish want of her love, cost her her life."

"Wanting her safe wasn't selfish, Michael. That's what love is all about, but you're right. Giselé would've resented you telling her what orders she could take and she wouldn't have expected you to play favorites either. That would've destroyed her just as surely as any insurrectionist's bullet."

"She'd have been alive though," he whispered, no longer looking at her.

The helicopter shuddered beneath his hands and he turned his attention back to it momentarily.

Unwillingly, her emerald green eyes followed him watching. "You don't know that," she replied.

Expertly, he settled the helicopter's flight path even as he shrugged. "Neither do you."

Her lungs tight, she sucked in an aching breath. She wasn't sure what she believed these days.

"You blame yourself, don't you, for Gavin's death?" he asked abruptly, realizing all the sudden where the question had originated.

Abruptly finding herself on the defensive, she retorted, "Well, if I hadn't fallen down on the job, then he wouldn't have been there in the first place trying to get me out."

"Grief, Alex!" he bit out impatiently. "You were lying in an alley way bleeding to death. I hardly think you intended it that way. It was just luck we didn't lose both of you."

Even as she tried to rebut his argument, the ripping screech of metal slamming into metal drowned out her words. Reeling under the impact, she slammed into the instrument panel as the helicopter began pitching and yawing wildly in the air.

"Ungh-hh," she cried out in pain as her shoulder thudded against a steel support rib of the helicopter and she gasped for breath.

Desperately, Michael fought to regain some control back over the helicopter. Wrestling with the stick, he struggled to keep the nose up and the helicopter in the air. And cursing, he realized it wasn't going to happen. "We're going down, Alex!" he muttered grimly. "We're going down."

Shuddering, the helicopter lurched first one way, then another as he fought to land it. Terrified, Alex watched as the ground came rushing up to greet them, heavy limbs raking the helicopter's fuselage and she braced herself, fear clawing at her heart as Michael lost the inevitable battle.


	4. Chapter 4

"Huh-hh," Michael sighed heavily, raking an agitated hand through his dark, blonde hair as he leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes and willing his heartbeat back to normal. "Not too bad for an out of practice helicopter pilot, huh?" he asked cockily.

No answer.

"Alex?" he called, snapping alert. "Alex??" Turning, he glanced around for her worriedly.

Pale and wan, she grinned at him, trying to ignore the lump on her forehead that still had her seeing stars. "What's wrong, Michael? Think you'd lost me?" she taunted.

"Not funny!" he snapped, giving a sigh of relief.

"Oh, that depends," she replied mockingly. "You should've seen the look on your face."

Furious, he just scowled at her, before slamming out of the helicopter, savagely cursing women in general and Alex in particular.

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Under the shadowy cover of night, they crept in, stomachs to the ground. Every noise seeming loud as an explosion to Alex's ears as they crept closer and closer to the guerilla camp. Each knowing if they were caught, death would be the _easy_ way out.

Nearby, a boot scuffed against rock and panic-stricken she froze, facing Michael with terrified eyes. Poised, he lay only feet away, gun drawn as they both held their breaths. Had they been detected already?

The guard passed on, shuffling in the hot, humid heat of the African night. A slow trickle of sweat ran down Alex's neck and between her breasts as she drew a shaky breath in relief.

Motioning abruptly with his hand, Michael signaled her to wait as he crept closer for a better look. Seething rebelliously, she waited, as he drew closer and closer until finally he disappeared, leaving her alone to wait.

Counting off the minutes, she waited what seemed like an eternity. Watch patrols passed and still he didn't return. Nervously, she slid her knife into her hand and gripped it with fingers trembling in anticipation.

At last, she could bear it no longer and she began the stealthy crawl toward the camp, the same way Michael had gone. A twig cracked beneath her knee, and she froze, instantly sure she'd been found. For a moment she waited, breath rasping in and out of her lungs in fear, but no rifle prodded her to rise. Thankfully, she inched forward, only to have the short, snout of a nickel-plated gun shoved in her face.

Instantly, she slashed out with the knife, knowing there'd be no second chances for her here. The sharp, silvery blade sliced down, lashing across a man's khaki sleeve, laying it open and gashing deep. Blood stained it crimson.

Voice guttural and angry, her attacker fired. Desperately, she rolled, scrambling to get out of the way. Even as she did though, the agonizing pain that ripped through her shoulder told her, she'd been too slow. She fought the pain that clawed at her, shoving to her feet.

Unthinkingly, she lunged for her attacker, even as he caught her wrist and wrenched the knife from her grasp. Sobbing, she raised a knee and slammed it into his stomach.

He groaned and fell, and she wrenched free, diving into the nearby bushes. Frantically, her fingers sought for the gun he'd dropped or her own knife, anything, so long as it was a weapon. Scrabbling in the dirt, her grasp closed around the hilt of the knife.

Panting, she fought the waves of pain and nausea from the gunshot wound even as the crackle of twigs alerted her someone else was there. Breathing hard, she waited, heart pounding.

"Alex!" a harsh whisper called. "Alex, where are you?"

Gasping, she tried to call a warning to Michael, but the words refused to come.

Outside the bushes continued to rustle with some new presence. Shrinking back, she waited, hearing the click of a clip being slammed into a handgun. Blood rushing in her ears, she raised her knife as the sounds came closer.

Seconds later, the leaves parted in front of her, as she fingered the blade. Startled, light blue eyes gazed into her pain-flecked green ones.

"Well, I wondered where you'd gotten to," remarked Michael, his mouth quirking sardonically as he eyed her. "You realize of course, things like this wouldn't happen if you'd just listen to me." He frowned, catching sight of the blood on her shoulder.

"Shut up," she whispered, weak with relief as recognition hit. "You'd hate for me to have to slit your throat, wouldn't you?" she retorted, even as the knife she held slid from nerveless fingers and she pitched forward into his arms unconscious.

* * *

"Ooh-hh," moaned Alex achingly regaining consciousness. Struggling to sit up, she put out an unsteady hand to right her spinning world. Hastily, she snatched it back as the dull ache in her shoulder exploded into searing agony. Her stomach clenched and she fought the retching sensation of dry heaves from the nausea.

"Glad to see you decided to rejoin the world of the living," Michael intoned dryly, not bothering to look up from the gun he was cleaning.

Alex's eyes narrowed angrily as she swallowed hard, clamping her wounded arm to her stomach and rolling to her knees. "Gee, thanks for your concern," she bit out sarcastically. "You know you really shouldn't worry about me so." With shaking hands, she snatched the canteen from the rock beside her and gulped down a few lukewarm mouthfuls.

Willing himself to hold his temper in check, Michael carefully set down the gun he'd been working on before answering. "You know of course, this wouldn't have happened if you'd waited where I told you to."

"Sorry, Michael," she said saccharine sweet. "I just had this overwhelming urge to get shot."

"Alex…" he began warningly.

"Look, Michael," she blazed, green eyes narrowing at him. "You took too long and I was worried. What do you want me to say? Trembling fingers raked flaming red hair out of her face. "I'm sorry for messing up your precious plan! There, are you happy? I've said it!"

Forbiddingly silent, he picked up the gun and slammed a new clip into it, turning away from her and shoving it into his waistband. "I found the camp," he stated flatly. "There's a heavy perimeter guard, but I think we can get in. There are only two possible buildings they could keep our agents in - if they're still alive."

"The problem is," he continued, "we can't know that for sure without going in. Probably tonight is the night, a load of ammunitions is coming in. That'll at lease split the camp in half for us."

Pacing, he flopped down on the log beside her, absently rubbing his aching leg. Hauling her through the brush earlier, he'd paid a price as well, whether he liked to admit it or not.

For a moment, he paused. "The question is, can you make it after this afternoon's fiasco?"

Raising her chin defiantly, she met him glare for glare. "I'll make it. I have to. Perhaps the question you should be asking is, will you?" Raising an eyebrow, she glanced pointedly at his bum leg.

Catching her glance, he ground out, "I'll manage," before angrily shoving himself to his feet and limping away to the other side of the camp in silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Cautiously, stealthily, they crept toward the camp and the perimeter guard. Hands shaking, Alex waited poised with the gun ready as the patrol approached. Nervously, she bit her lip as she heard his steady approach.

Counting the seconds now, she waited. A few more feet and he'd be in position. Closer, closer he came.

Abruptly, the footsteps ceased and she heard the click of a machine rifle being readied. Panic-stricken, her heart slammed into her throat. What if he'd heard her?

Waiting, she prayed for the footsteps to begin again.

Silence.

Cursing silently, she dove for the brush, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rise. A hail of bullets tore into the trunk of the tree where she'd just been standing.

Desperately slithering forward on her stomach, she crawled towards the guards position. Rolling, she levered off part of a clip in the direction of fire as the bullets rained closer.

Around her she could hear the crash of undergrowth underfoot. Twigs snapped; heavy leaves and vines slapped at her arms and face, their underside prickly in the heat. Stumbling, she ran for the clearing.

Then abruptly, it was all over as she staggered clumsily into the clearing to find Michael kneeling over the guerilla guard gun in hand.

"He's dead," he stated matter of factly, catching her as she halted beside them gun in hand.

Closing her eyes, she took a shuddering breath, feeling his fingers close around her arm. Lungs burning, she leaned against his shoulder gulping for air.

Pulling her towards him, he placed a comforting kiss on her cheek before releasing her.

Startled, her eyes flew open to gaze at him uncomprehendingly, but already the moment was gone as he turned away as if it had never happened.

Bending silently, he stooped to pick up the machine rifle and slung it over his shoulder even as he motioned for her to fall in behind him. Unthinkingly, she did so for once not asking questions.

Edging through the trees, Alex dogged Michael's heels. Hidden by the shadows, they crept closer to the insurgent's camp. As the buildings came into view between the leaves, Michael knelt and motioned her to do the same.

Grim-faced, he viewed the scene in front of him with the binoculars. "There," he whispered, at last, pointing. "See the guards? The only two possible places they could be keeping them are those two out buildings."

Reaching over, she took the binoculars, focusing in for herself. "Which one do you think?" she queried, shooting him a quick sidelong glance, before taking a second look.

"Hard to say," he answered, still eyeing the buildings in the camp with trepidation. "Unfortunately, we can't just wait and see, either." Sighing, he tightened his grip on the gun in his lap. "We'll go after the one on the left first. It's closer to cover."

Poised beside him, she nodded.

The sharp crack of a branch behind them, had him spinning gun in hand. AK-47 in hand, one of the insurgents faced him. "Now!" he yelled at Alex, letting loose a hail of bullets in their attacker's direction. The element of surprise was gone, their only hope now to get in and get out.

Rifle in hand, Michael charged out of the brush, covering their entrance. Scrambling, Alex followed, dodging bullets and ducking for cover.

Panting for breath, she slammed into the rough wood siding of the building. Machine gun fire tearing into the ground at her feet, sent her crouching in terror. Leveling the gun in her hand, she spun firing back - with a lot more precision.

Turning her attention back to the door of the shed, she yelled, "Back!" and leveled off another round of fire at the lock. Hardly pausing, she landed a sidekick at the door, slamming it open.

Forcing his way through the door, Michael faced the room gun in hand. Furtively glancing around, he groaned. "Nothing," he muttered in frustration.

"Come on!" he ordered, motioning with his rifle as he ran out. Sprinting, they made for a nearby jeep and ducked behind it. "Cover me," he grated, dashing for cover further on.

Grabbing up her own gun, Alex let off a shower of rifle fire. Even as she did so though, she saw Michael go down.

"Michael!" she screamed, even as he hit the ground. Crouching, she ran across the camp, layering down a round of rifle fire as she went. At a burst of gunfire behind her, she skidded to a stop and spun, returning fire as she did so. Gun clattering to the ground beside him, a guerilla soldier fell.

Lunging, she fell to the ground next to Michael. "You okay?" she cried, kneeling on one knee beside him, frantically searching for a pulse with one hand and casting around with the gun in the other.

A surprisingly strong grip clasped her wrist halting the motion in mid-air. Startled, she face him, staring into remarkable alert, pain-filled blue eyes.

"Run!" he croaked hoarsely.

"No!" she retorted. "I'm not going without you!"

"Can't …make it," he answered panting. "Get out now, while you still can."

In answer, she slung the rifle over her shoulder and grabbed him by the wrists, straining to drag both of them to cover. Staggering, she made it behind a nearby jeep, dragging him with her.

"Stop it, Alex!" he ordered, grabbing her arm and dragging her down beside him. "We don't have time for this. You have to get out now, if you're going to get out!"

"I won't leave you, Michael," she vowed, glaring at him. "So don't waste your breath."

Groaning in resignation, he struggled to roll to his knees. Biting back a moan, he got there, arms trembling with effort. "Well, help me up then," he rasped, " 'cause we're sure not getting anywhere like this."

Wrapping her arm around his waist, Michael struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on her. Blood trickled hot and sticky over his fingers where they clutched a wound in his side.

"Hurry up, hurry up!" she urged, pulling him on towards the last building. Together they stumbled up to it. Sidling up against the door facing, Alex peered into the grimy hole of a window beside it.

"Well?" he asked grimly, wondering if they were all going to die for naught.

She nodded, curtly in answer. "It's them."

"Back," he rasped, shoving her out of the way, knowing they were running out of time. He peppered the lock with rifle-fire, bullets thudding into the wood around it. The chain and lock dropped to the ground with a metallic clunk.

Bracing her shoulder against the door, Alex shoved with all her might. Guns in hand, the two of them ducked in.

Six people sitting on the dirt floor raised startled eyes to face them. A man, not quite as battered as the rest lifted his voice hopefully, "Americanos?"

"Yeah," she affirmed, jerking her head to the side she motioned them out. "Come on, come on!"

Staggering to their feet and milling dazedly towards the door, they straggled out. Bringing up the rear and pushing as she did so, Alex urged them faster. Ducking and crouching behind the jeeps and buildings, they ran for the tree line at a stumbling run. Behind them, a cry went up and the sound of gunfire echoed against their ears.

Dropping back to help cover their escape, Michael slumped against a battered truck letting off another volley of rifle-fire. "Run, Alex!" Run!" he yelled, frantically motioning the others on. "We've gotta keep going!"

She stumbled, hitting the dirt. Her fingers clenching around the rifle as she did so. Bullets slammed into the ground beside her, and she rolled whimpering, snatching up the gun.

Staggering back, Michael was beside her, gripping her arm, yanking her up. Desperately dodging bullets, sides aching, breath gasping they ran for the trees and cover. Ahead, a lobbed grenade struck a jeep even as they reached it.

It exploded with a boom, glass and metal shards flying everywhere in the air and slamming into the ground around them. Slammed to the ground by the explosion, Alex heard the agonized scream of one of the men they'd freed ahead of them. Scrambling to her feet, she yanked her gaze away, a quick glance convincing her there was nothing she could do for the man. Shoulder throbbing and heart pounding, she kept going.

"Stop!" a guerilla soldier ordered, his words harsh on her ears as he suddenly charged in front of her, blocking her escape. Sliding to a halt, she tried desperately to avoid him, only to find herself crashing to the ground.

"Michael!" she screamed, trying to writhe free. "Michael!" The only answer she heard was the thud of bullets slamming into the ground around them.

* * *

"Get out of here! Run!" Michael screamed, frantically urging the others on. Staggering and stumbling they scrambled through the trees and brush, ducking slapping branches and stinging vines. Covering their escape, Michael brought up the rear. Where the heck was Alex?

Limping down the trail after them, he ran for the helicopter. Ugly and battle scarred, the Huey was their only hope. Wrenching the cockpit door open, he grabbed a handhold and hauled himself up, hurriedly flicking switches and starting up the rotors.

"Come on, Alex," he muttered urgently. "Where are you?"

Breaking through the trees, the band of insurrectionists opened fire. The sound of bullets slammed all around them, ricocheting of the windshield and the metal around him. Flinching he ducked, powering the engines.

"Let's go!" one of the agents behind him yelled. "Come on, we've got to get out of here before they kill us all!"

Beside him, a bullet slammed into the seat beside Michael, burying itself there. Desperately, he pulled the helicopter aloft. With every passing second, it seemed the forces on the ground got heavier, his chance of finding her smaller.

His gaze searching frantically, the Huey hovered. Heavy artillery fire erupted from the ground, missing them by inches.

"Look out!" a voice behind Michael yelled, the tone panicked.

Desperately jerking back on the stick, he swerved hard. Instantly the helicopter swung hard left, barely avoiding being shot out of the sky by 50 caliber ammo. Wallowing, it hovered, ungainly but intact.

Swinging around, he pointed the helicopter back towards the camp. Sweeping over the trees beneath he hunted for Alex. Where could she be?

Flak erupted around him. An explosion ripped into the sky right in front of the helicopter. Struggling, he fought to keep the aircraft aloft.

"Come on, you've got to go. We've got to get out of here!" the man behind him cried, clutching his sleeve. "She's not coming!"

Spotting her running, Michael fought the helicopter, ignoring him. "Alex!" he cried, swinging the nose of the Huey back around. Even as he did though, he saw the soldier charge from the trees behind her.

Desperately, he yelled her name, knowing she'd never hear the warning in time. Swinging the butt of his rifle, the guerilla attacked. In horror he watched the butt of the AK-47 he held come crashing down on her shoulders from behind.

Turning at the last instant, she fought back, taking the full force of the blow across her upraised forearms. Kicking and punching, she struggled crumpling beneath the blows.

Beneath his hands, the helicopter lurched, faltering, dropping heavily. Suddenly fighting just to stay aloft, Michael struggled to regain altitude, the instruments going haywire.

"We've been hit! We're hit!" a voice yelled in his ear. Fighting the stick and the collective, he struggled to keep her in the air watching Alex fall beneath the guerilla's onslaught. "No!" he yelled in vain.

With a sinking heart, he watched the soldier bring his rifle up, pointing the barrel at her.

The helicopter swung away, limping towards the tree line. There was nothing more he could do.


	6. Chapter 6

"What do you mean, I can't go back for Alex?" he rasped. "Do you realize what the insurrectionists do to their prisoners? What they are probably doing to her right now, if she is still alive?"

"That's exactly my point, Michael," Tristen replied, not without sympathy. "We don't even know that she is alive. There is no way I am going to authorize a potentially volatile rescue mission with those risks in mind. She knew the risks, Michael. I'm sorry, but the answer is no."

Furiously, he slammed his hands down on the desk. "I am responsible for her, I was the one who talked her into going back over there!"

Leaning back in the oversize leather chair, she looked at him a little pityingly. "I'm sorry, Michael. You know the rules."

"That's not good enough, Tristen!" he snarled. "I am not leaving her!" Leaning heavily on the desk, he glared at her in ill-concealed frustration and anger.

With that, he turned and stalked towards the door, not looking back.

"Michael!" she yelled. "Michael, stop!"

He kept walking.

* * *

Head aching, Alex found herself jolted awake by the slap of cold water in her face. Spluttering, she snatched awake, gasping in surprise. "Wha-a?"

With a sinking heart, awareness hit as she glanced around. Defiantly, she raised her chin and faced her captors.

"Well," purred a small voice from behind her. "If it isn't Alex. Who would've thought you'd be foolish enough to return? Miss me, dear?" he purred.

Frantically, she fought the ropes that held her. Facing him again she spat, "Not likely, Colonel."

"Really?" he queried, soft venom coating his voice. "Then why are you back?" he asked, his voice suddenly hard.

"I think you can guess," she answered arrogantly. Terrified she might be, but she'd never let him have the satisfaction of knowing.

"You realize, of course, that they left you?" he said false pity in his tone. "What kind of friends you choose, my dear."

Fighting down the panic that followed his words, she replied with more confidence then she felt, "Then they'll be back for me, Colonel."

At that, the veneer of sophistication dropped. "You are a fool," he snarled, bringing his hand crashing across her cheek. "They will not be allowed to return for one such as you. Assuming of course, that they even could," he suddenly smiled, a hard glint in his eyes. "They did not appear to be doing so well flying after my men used them for target practice."

"Michael will come back for me!" she spat vehemently.

"Michael?" he asked, his tone becoming abruptly curious. "This wouldn't be Michael Archangel would it?"

In horror, she realized she'd said too much. Her mouth was likely to get not only her in trouble, but him as well if she wasn't careful. "It doesn't matter," she said her eyes widening in feigned innocence. "They'll be back for me."

"Enough!" he snarled, slamming his hand to the desk in front of her. "I weary of your games." Imperiously, he waved her away. "I'll deal with you later…in my own way." He motioned for the guards to take her back to her cell.

Turning, he strode away, before turning almost absently to face her as they drug her from the room. "You'd be amazed how far torture has progressed since you and Gavin were here," he stated almost conversationally before spinning on his heel to leave.

* * *

Seething, Michael stalked out of the building and through the Firm's parking lot. Unthinkingly, he strode across the asphalt field towards his car. Never would he leave Alex for the Colonel, he thought furiously.

Impatiently he fought the lock on the car door, his thoughts in a turmoil. Abruptly, he froze. Just why was she so important? Suddenly the question was paramount in his thoughts, and the easy answer that he was responsible for her would no longer do. Granted, he had brought her into this, both before and now, but it was more than that…

Numbly, he unlocked the door, his thoughts running rampant and unguarded. Suddenly, all the little details about Alex that he'd never really registered slammed into his consciousness…the way her hair burned like flame in the sunlight, the imperious arch of her eyebrows as she challenged him, the husky sound of her laughter on the rare occasions he managed to get past her guard.

"Hang…" he muttered groaning, as he slumped across the steering wheel, the truth hitting like a punch to the gut. Somehow, somewhere along the way, he'd fallen in love with her. It might not matter, she blamed him for Gavin's death, and it certainly wasn't something the committee would look kindly on, but he'd gone and done it anyway.

"No," he muttered in desperation. "No, no, no…" but it didn't matter how many times he said it, he'd still done the stupidest thing a field agent could possibly ever do. Had he learned nothing from Giselé he wondered? Nothing at all?

Worst of all, he realized, he might have already lost her before he'd even hardly found her.

Seized by a sudden sense of urgency, he scrambled for the ignition key, fumbling for a moment before the powerful Jaguar engine roared to life. Slamming the car into gear, he roared out of the lot, barely bothering to look as he swung it into onto the tarmac headed for the hanger at the far end.

Tires squealing, it ate the distance between as he shoved down the choking feeling that time was fast slipping away for both Alex and him. The only thing that mattered was getting back to Alex and finishing the job, something he'd already left far too long.

Spotting the hanger up ahead, he pressed down harder on the accelerator. He fought impatience as he spotted the guard shack up ahead, a detail he'd forgotten in his haste. He didn't kid himself that Tristen would've given him a pass on this one, and he knew she knew as well as he did what he'd be planning to do.

With a hiss of irritation, he hit the brakes, figuring blitzing past the guard would be the quickest way to getting himself shot and the rescue mission shelved before it even began.

Fingers thrumming on the wheel, he waited as the guard checked and re-checked his credentials and clearance. Not being named on the list wasn't unheard of, it happened with last minute missions and such, and he was betting his success on that sloppy little detail, even as he silently cursed and contemplated just running over the guard.

How could anyone be so slow? Grinding his teeth, he'd just about decided that was going to be the choice he had when the guard finally looked up and waved him through.

In a frenzy of impatience, he slammed the gas to the floorboard, knowing any second the guard could call Tristen and have him grounded before he even left the ground.

Spotting a lone figure in grease-stained coveralls working on the helicopters, he slammed to a skidding stop, flinging himself out of the car. "John!" he yelled, hoping he'd have better luck getting the mechanic in gear than he'd had with the guard. "John!"

Not waiting for an answer, he loped towards him favoring the damaged leg. His breath was rasping in his lungs, the pain from the fresh graze across his ribs reminding him how little time he had. "John," he yelled. "I need your help…"

"Really?" came the reply, as he pulled the battered cap from his head, from the top of the ladder. Dark chestnut colored hair tumbling down…"Imagine that."

Stunned, he stared at the figure in shock. "Tristen?" he muttered, frantically trying to figure how she would've beat him here, what he was going to do now. He might be able to get past her, but there was no denying if she chose, the deputy director was more than capable of pinning his hide to the wall for doing so. "What are you doing here?" he queried, knowing if it'd come to that, he'd kiss his career goodbye to do so.

Raising an eyebrow, she simply looked at him. The corner of her mouth quirked. "You weren't exactly hard to second guess, Michael," she replied.

"I am going," he stated, narrowing his eyes as he stared her down. "If not this way, then another."

The barely there, smug smile instantly disappeared. "I figured as much. Next you'll be telling me you love her."

The agonized look that flitted across his features as he met her gaze, gave her her answer before his words did. "Yeah, Tristen, I guess I do."

Grimacing she frowned, dropping her own gaze as she turned away. "Well, Michael," she said, wiping the grease with a rag from well-manicured fingers, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't guess I can very well let you go alone, so you'd better get your butt in gear." With that, she began her descent down the ladder, her hair whipping in the wind as she did so. "Heaven only knows what kind of trouble you'd get yourself into without me along."

Stunned, he stopped her at the foot of the ladder. "Why Tristen?" he asked. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"No change of heart, Michael," she answered a little sadly with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I just don't want to see you blown out of the sky, and I'm not risking another agent on this fool's mission of yours."

Stepping out of his reach nearly the same instant she touched the ground, she walked quickly and lightly towards the hanger. "Call it curiosity, if you must," she called back over her shoulder. "I want to see the woman who can capture the heart of Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III. I didn't think anyone could win your heart."

_Stunned, he watched her go. __Had she really said what he thought, she just said?_

Returning, she tossed a heavy duffel bag at him. The two M-16 machine guns slung over her shoulder looked decidedly incongruous against her slender frame. Somehow he didn't doubt for one instant though that she knew how to use them. "Well, are you coming or not?" she demanded, before he even had a chance to fall into step beside her.

Grinning, he shot her a wicked glance. "This I wouldn't miss for the world."

* * *

Below them, the ocean undulated an angry dull grey expanse. "We're only about thirteen minutes out," said Tristen speaking into her headset. "What's the set-up, Michael?"

Shooting her a sharp glance as she expertly maneuvered the Huey, he answered. "Guerilla insurrectionist camp about forty miles inland. Thirty five to fifty soldiers on the average - or at least that's what was there last time. Kersey heads up the group."

"The same Colonel that Gavin worked with on the Asgard project?" she replied, her tone suddenly wary.

"The same," he confirmed. "Little did we know when we sent Gavin over there they'd be waiting. His cover turned out to be no cover at all when his mentor turned out to be the competition."

"I'll bet," she bit out grimly, realizing just how badly they'd been sold down the river. "The Firm sure made a mess out of that one. He didn't have a chance from the beginning."

Michael's blue eyed gaze was sober as he met hers. "No."

"So, where does Alex fit in to all this?" she demanded, firmly shoving the thoughts of the other agent away, knowing there was nothing she could do to change what was already done.

"She was Gavin's fiancée. A political correspondent to top it all off. The perfect cover. She knew the situation and he knew he could trust her implicitly, it seemed like the perfect pairing."

"And…?" she prodded.

"And Kersey caught wind of it, of course. They shot her, and then killed Gavin letting him think she'd died. The fact she survived at all was a mere fluke at best."

Tristen eyed him, thinking she was pretty sure there was more to it than a fluke but said nothing. Banking, she swept across the rugged terrain below. "So why'd you take her back?" she asked adjusting their flight course. "Surely, you of all people knew how dangerous it was for her, if not deadly."

"I don't know," he sighed. "Stupidity, I guess. I needed her expertise and I was afraid to leave her alone."

Frowning, she looked at him, as his voice trailed off. Not knowing whether it was a mistake or not, she prodded, her pale blue eyes worried. "Afraid?" she asked.

Soberly he answered, as if dragging his thoughts back from a great distance. "After Gavin's death, she was …destroyed. Kersey might as well have killed them both. I often wondered if it might not have been better."

Fingering the controls for a long moment, Tristen was silent. "And now?"

"I wish I knew," he said tightening his grip on the M-16 he held. "I thought perhaps, if she could go back… maybe things would be different…maybe she'd be able to put it behind her."

"Does she love you?"

Startled by the question, his eyes flew open in surprise. In shock, he stared back at her as he tried to deny her question. He couldn't.

An eternity of silence seemed to pass between them before he answered. "I wish I knew," he spoke grimly. "I really do. I just know, I can't leave her there to die either way."

"And if we're too late?" Tristen asked, hating herself even as she voiced the words.

"Then no matter what happens, I'll be taking Kersey out," he answered, putting an end to the discussion.


	7. Chapter 7

Hours had passed. Alex found the numbness in her shoulders and arms spreading with each passing minute now. Sweat ran down her neck, stinging brutally where it ran into a shoulder wound that had begun to bleed again.

Blearily she tried to focus on something, anything, to stay awake. The ironic thought of how mad Kersey would be if he came out to question her and found her already dead and out of his reach brought a grim smile to her lips. She could almost picture his fury even now…

Heavy booted steps trudged closer. Pain dulling her senses, she didn't hear them until they were only feet away. Malevolently she raised her eyes to meet the guard's, glaring angrily back, daring them to break her.

Ignoring her angry gaze, rough hands cruelly held her shoulders while the rope that held her wrists was slashed away. Staggering as what support she had was yanked away, Alex stumbled to her knees. Reacting instantly, thick fingers twined themselves brutally in her hair, yanking her to her feet.

Yelping in pain, she stumbled upright. A rifle slamming into her back in the same instant, painfully reminding her just who was in charge. Furiously, she straightened, throwing back her shoulders defiantly.

Again the AK-47 came up, prodding her painfully forward. This time she silently fell into step, her defiance all but gone.

Fighting down the panic that threatened to engulf her, she stumbled along. Where was Michael, anyway? She wondered in desperation. Surely, he hadn't abandoned her. Or had he? Asked the niggling little voice at the back of her mind spitefully. She knew full well the Firm's policy about captured operatives - that was what had gotten her involved in this mess to begin with. And suddenly she wasn't too sure.

"Well," remarked Kersey raising a mocking glance her way, as she pitched clumsily into his tent. "Decided to come talk to me, Ms. Morgan?" he asked sneeringly.

"Apparently that decision was made for me," she retorted, her green eyes narrowing angrily.

"Enough!" he barked, his palm crashing down on the desk impatiently. "I do not feel like playing this game with you any longer. Who are you? And how did you find us?"

Giving her a hard slap, he sent her slamming to the floor, looming over her forebodingly. Senses reeling, she tried to shake off the stinging blow where her head had hit the ground. Gingerly, she got to her knees, picking herself up off the dirt floor. The coppery, bitter taste of blood strong in her mouth as she did so.

Fury for everything she'd lost blazed in her eyes as she raised her head to face him. "It doesn't matter who I am or how we found you, Kersey," she spat. "We found you, and this is far from over!"

His features contorted in fury, he absorbed her answer. "Fine," he snarled. "Let's see how you feel after my men have questioned you. I have a feeling you knew Giselé St. Clair? Let's see if you fare any better than she did."

Swallowing hard, Alex raised her chin meeting his eyes, willing herself not to tremble.

"You say they shall return for you? Well, we'll see exactly how much they want you, when I finish with you." Idly he picked up a lethal looking knife from his desk. Slowly, he fingered it, his eyes amused as he traced a thin red path down her cheek, blood trickling down her neck and the blade glinting wickedly in the dying afternoon light.

* * *

Shoulders aching with strain, Tristen set the Huey UH-1 down amidst a whorl of wind in miniscule. Wearily, she stretched before turning to face Michael.

Tensely, he tightened the thick canvas straps on the pack he held, before slinging it over his shoulders. Questioningly, he raised uneasy eyes to meet hers.

There was a long, hesitant pause before she spoke. "I'll wait for you here, Michael. You just make sure you make it back, okay?"

"Tristen?" he queried, reaching for her arm.

She shrugged him off. "Somebody's got to stay with the helicopter and guard the escape route. Besides," she said, breaking his gaze and staring down at the floor of the cockpit with sudden interest, "one person has a better chance than two of slipping in there and out again undetected."

Noting the worry that had seemed to cloud her eyes for an instant before, so unlike her, he gently squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "Thanks, Tristen," he murmured."It'll all work out, you'll see." And with that he was gone.

Through a haze of tears, she stared down at the floor. "I hope so, Michael," she whispered, knowing no matter what happened, in that instant he was lost to her forever. "I hope so," she repeated her teeth clenching on a sob as she began checking the armament left on board.

* * *

Trudging in grim silence through the dense undergrowth, Michael approached the guerilla camp. Surely it hadn't been so far before, he thought freezing, his heart pounding in his throat as the snap of a twig. Clammily, his shirt clung to his shoulders and chest, fear tasting sharp and bitter in his mouth.

At last he moved on, stealthily creeping into the darkening shadows around the camp. At the edges of his hearing, the dull thud of booted feet resounded, reminding him just how precarious his position really was. Shrinking into the shadows, he cocked the 9mm he held, trying to decide his best chance for finding Alex - assuming of course, she was still alive, he thought.

The harsh rustle of canvas in the wind caught his attention. The dim light of a lantern filtered out, as the flap of a tent was lifted. "Enter!" a familiar voice bellowed irritably.

"Bingo," he whispered in triumph. Strong, slender fingers flexing, he adjusted his grip on the gun he held. Poised weapon in hand, he took a deep breath before plunging into the waiting darkness.

Uneasily, a hot breeze stirred the heavier air. Concentrating on the rough wood shack on the other side of the camp, a rivulet of sweat ran down his cheek unnoticed.

Crouched, he covered the ground between his position and the building in a limping lope.

Squinting through the grime covered window, he peered into the darkness beyond it searching for some sign of the red-head. "Shadows," he muttered frustrated. "Only shadows. Where the heck is she?"

Turning away, his blue eyes scoured the camp, searching for any other places she might be hidden. "Alex," he whispered hoarsely, "where are you?"

As if in answer, a low moan reached his ears, barely heard. "Alex," he rasped thickly, back beside the darkened wood building in a heartbeat. Desperately, he searched the shadows a second time.

Nothing. Frustration ate at him as he peered into the darkness to no avail. At rope's end, he stole around the side of the building eyeing the door warily. The crunch of every painful step feeling like it was screaming his position out.

Stepping back, he stumbled up the few steps, slamming his full weight into the door. Shuddering, the wood groaned in protest but held. Possessed by a sudden frenzy of urgency Michael slammed his shoulder hard against the door once again.

Splintering the wood split apart in jagged, angry spears. He moaned, pain ripping through his shoulder even as the door crashed to the ground with him on it. Clutching his shoulder in agony, he shook his head trying to clear away the numbing haze that clawed at his senses.

Voices clamored across the camp, awakened abruptly from sleep. Even now he could hear the echo of shouts as the alarm was raised. Jerked to alertness, he struggled to his feet, his leg threatening to give way with every step.

"Alex!" he shouted his voice rough with desperation . "Alex, where are you?!" Feverishly he shoved aside the wooden crates piled around him, praying he hadn't been wrong.

Toppling one of the smaller crates, over turned by his frantic hands. Even as it slammed into the ground, guns spewed out. Heedlessly, Michael ignored them, his thought only on Alex.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spun, 9mm in hand. Instinct born of long years of experience sending him ducking behind the nearest crate.

A wavering figure stepped into the pale light, a forgotten machine rifle clutched in its hands. Numbly, clouded green eyes dark against waxen skin stared into his. And slowly the gun slid from his fingers.

Eyebrows arching, his bark blue eyes widened in disbelief. "Alex….?" he grated hoarsely. A thousand questions seemed to pound in his brain as he lunged across the crate.

Even as he touched her, she crumpled like a rag doll suddenly gone limp. Instantly his arms closed around her, catching her before she could fall.

"Alex?" he cried, lowering her gently to the concrete floor. "Alex?"

Only silence met his panic-stricken words. Eyes closed, she didn't answer.

Hands suddenly trembling Michael searched desperately for a pulse, a thin rivulet of her blood trickling darkly across his fingers as he did so. "Alex?" he whispered again, his voice desperate.

Utterly still, she lay there, so close and yet so abruptly out of his reach once more.

"No!" he screamed, his face a sculpture in agony, pain ripping through his soul like a double edged dagger. "No," he moaned his voice ending in a near sob. Knotting his fingers in her thick, flame-colored hair he bowed his head in defeat.

* * *

Outside the sharp retort of rifle fire drew nearer. Booming, the explosion of a detonated grenade shook the camp as a dark green, heavily-armed Huey abruptly swept down from above the trees. Slamming the camp with machine gun fire. It razed a of destruction straight through the center of the rebel camp.

Cursing, the guerilla soldiers let loose return fire. Thudding heavily against the metal hull, their bullets pounded into it.

"Ah-ghh!" screamed Tristen in pain as a single stray bullet slammed through the windshield in front of her, shattering it and peppering her with shards of plexiglas.

"Where are you Michael?" she panted, swinging the helicopter around tail first, and sending a deadly rain of fire, through the guerilla troops. Flinching, she swung hard to the left avoiding a jeep that had abruptly become inferno almost beneath her. "Michael!" she cursed even as she yelled his name.

* * *

Long, slender fingers clasped around his wrist like a band. Tightening they clung there like a limpet. Raising his head, Michael numbly opened his eyes as he did so.

Startling pale green eyes stared back into his. In a daze, he stared back hardly daring to hope. "Alex?" he whispered.

"What took you so long?" she rasped weakly, never once breaking eye contact.

He grinned joyously, "You're alive! Thank God, you're alive!" Gathering her into his arms, he crushed her to him, holding her body tightly to his.

Body aching and nose squashed against his shoulder she grinned wryly. "No joke," she gasped as he held her tightly to him.


	8. Chapter 8

From outside came the clatter of automatic fire, sounding only yards away.

The agonized scream of a soldier just outside hit with mortal fire grated across his ears. Flinching, Alex froze in Michael's arms.

"Tristen…" he whispered, eyes widening in horror and realization. "I didn't make check in…" Nearly dropping Alex, he lunged for the window.

The scene of decimation across the field struck him in grim detail. An overturned jeep, the driver pinned and dying, ammunitions burning and guerilla soldiers scattered throughout, leveling fire on a lone helicopter as it swept low and fast across the camp.

"Michael!" Alex pleaded. "What's going on? What's happened?"

Ignoring her desperate questions, he spun away from the window, snatching up the fallen guns from the floor. "Come on!" he grated, dragging her to her feet.

"Michael, wait!" she protested, wincing in pain as she stumbled along behind him. His arm slung around her shoulders supporting her, they ran through the camp ducking bullets as they went. Gun in hand, Archangel kept her moving, the strain beginning to show on his face.

"Enough…" gasped Alex as they crouched panting behind an empty covered truck. "I've… got to …rest. I can't…go on."

Silently agreeing with her, the pain clawing at his bad leg threatening to fell him, Michael shook his head denying them both. "You'll have to," he rasped. "We've got to keep moving. It's not just our lives on the line now. It's Tristen's as well."

"I can't, Michael," she moaned.

"You can and you will," he bit out impatiently. "I'm not letting Tristen get blown out of the sky 'cause you "can't"," he retorted mimicking her. "Get your act together Delacorte."

Panting, breath heaving in her lungs, sweat sliding down her back and her neck sticky with blood, Alex glared back. "Who elected you king, Coldsmith-Briggs?" she snarled shoving his hand away.

Sardonic grin teasing at his mouth, Archangel ignored her look, slamming another clip into the 9mm he held. "You ready?" he clipped, tossing her the AK-47.

Seething, she snatched it in mid-air. "You never did answer my question, Michael," she retorted, eyes flashing. "Who made you king?"

Glancing back at her, he quirked an eyebrow mockingly. "I did," he replied arrogantly. "If you've got a complaint - file it later."

With that he dashed for the next building and cover, motioning her to follow. Each step seemed an eternity in the open, an easy target for the rifle fire that rained around him. Heart in his throat, he ducked, avoiding it even as he dove for cover.

Reaching it, what there was of it anyway, he levered off return fire. "Come on, Alex!" he grated. "Run!" he cursed frantically, knowing they were out of time.

AK-47 in hand, she lunged for cover and Michael, fire exploding around her, bullets ripping into the ground at her feet tearing it apart. Stumbling and screaming in terror she fell, yelling his name.

Without a thought, he ran for her, abandoning the safety of the building and cover. Hand outstretched he reached for her, fingers touching, clamping around hers. Her hand in his, they ran for the helicopter.

"Get them!" Kersey screamed in rage. Slamming the jeep into gear, the soldier beside him tore off after the two fleeing Americans. Incensed, Kersey pumped off several rounds trying to hit them, shots going wild as the jeep jounced over the uneven ground.

Lungs sobbing for air, Alex ran beside Michael every pounding step torture as it slammed through her wounded shoulder. Stride for stride she matched him. Even now she could hear the sharp staccato of weapon fire around them.

Lunging for the waiting helicopter, they reached it together. Flinging open the door Michael shoved her inside, grabbing a handhold to pull himself up behind with. Gaining a foothold, he heaved himself in behind her even as a bullet slammed through the glass beside him.

"Agghh!" he cried out in pain, the bullet thudding into his flesh.

"Michael!" Tristen screamed, watching the metal of the handgrip slide through his nerveless fingers. Unable to hold on he slid to the ground. Struggling, he tried to rise, collapsing only mere feet from freedom.

Scrabbling, Tristen clamored across the cockpit of the helicopter, Alex only a heartbeat behind. Panting, the two women desperately tried to drag his limp body into the helicopter.

"Come on, come on!" the younger woman pleaded, desperately glancing over her shoulder. Muscles trembling, the taste of fear bitter in her mouth Tristen heaved again. Alex hauled with all her strength on Michael's wrists as she did. And suddenly, they had him…

"Got him! We've got him!" Alex cried in triumph. Fingers closing around each others wrists, strength flowed between the two as Tristen deftly swung Alex up into the helicopter beside her. Instantly she was into the pilot's seat expertly flicking levers and easing back on the collective as she shoved it airborne.

With a shudder, the Huey rose climbing slowly from the treacherous ground that had nearly cost them their lives. Oblivious, Alex turned her back to the cockpit and back to Michael sprawled unceremoniously across the floor of the helicopter. Crawling to his side, she reached for his hand, still fingers in her own. "Michael?" she whispered, the words questioning and uncertain over the roar of the rotors around her. Anxious fingers searched his neck for a pulse, unable to find one for one desperate moment.

Nervously, she swallowed hard reaching a trembling hand out to smooth away the sweat-drenched dark blonde hair that clung to his forehead wondering if all their efforts had been for nothing. "Please, no," she whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

Faintly, his pulse pounded beneath her fingertips and she allowed herself a weak prayer of relief.

"How is he?" Tristen yelled back from the cockpit over the noise of the rotors around them.

"Alive," she whispered feebly, startling back to reality.

"What?" yelled Tristen in frustration, unable to hear. She cast an anxious glance back over her shoulder.

"Alive," Alex yelled back, slightly louder.

Tristen shot a glance to the sky ahead of them. "How bad?" she called back.

"I don't know," the redhead replied, feeling more than a little ill, unsure she wanted to know the truth.

"Well, look!" the darker-haired woman bit out in frustration, her voice rising in impatience.

Nodding mutely, her eyes filled with misery, Alex fumbled to unbutton his shirt, her soul shrinking in dismay at the amount of blood that stained it. Carefully she eased the blood-soaked material away from the bullet wound. Nausea gripped her, as she turned her head squeezing her eyes shut before answering. "Bad," she answered, forcing the word past her suddenly paralyzed throat. "Real bad."

From the cockpit, she heard Tristen curse as if from a distance. "Blast," she muttered, her voice infinitely weary. For a long moment she was silent, the only sound between them the sound of the rotors chopping the air. "Can you do something?" she called out at last.

Clutching the blood-stained shirt in her hand, she pressed against the wound. "I've done all I can!" retorted Alex in frustration. "I'm not a doctor, what more do you want?"

"A miracle," Tristen yelled back, pulling back on the stick. "Hang on!" she ordered as they hurtled sickeningly through the jungle, low over the winding, muddy river below.

* * *

Unmoving, Michael lay in the bed as still as death. It was as if he was already gone, Tristen thought, pain clutching at her heart. Beside the bed, a faded blue chair sat uninviting and uncomfortable, a token to courtesy not comfort.

Sitting, she didn't notice. She knew her time here was limited. New orders had been waiting her on her desk this morning when she'd walked in - orders to Langley and the Proteus project on the table there. It seemed she'd been relieved of duty here as Deputy Director, due to some dispute over her role in the unauthorized rescue of Alex Delacorte and a few American agents. Technically, the move was lateral, but she knew it for what it was, a demotion. Her career as a spy was more or less over, and she'd been relegated to an administrative paper pusher.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one she'd known was coming for quite some time. It'd only been a matter of time before she crossed swords with the committee and one of them lost. It had been inevitable it would be her.

Taking Michael's hand in hers though, she had no regrets. The new Deputy Director would be a good one, one that the committee would find they couldn't push aside so easily - assuming he lived.

She intertwined her fingers in his, fighting the lump in her throat. For a long moment she sat in silence knowing the time for goodbyes had come. Whatever she might feel for him was immaterial, always had been. Whatever battles Michael would have to fight, he'd have to fight on his own from here on out.

"You know I'm going to miss you," she whispered, ignoring the tear that trailed damply down her cheek. Sniffing inelegantly, the brunette wiped perfectly made up eyes. He didn't stir.

Desolation clawed at her. She wasn't sure she could do this.

Tightening her fingers on his, she heaved in a trembling breath. "Look here," she managed at last. "You're going to have to wake up, Michael. There's too much riding on this for you to flake out on me now, you hear me?"

He didn't move.

Heaving to her feet, Tristen dropped his hand, pacing the room. Bowing her head, she nervously raked her fingers through her hair. "Please Michael," she whispered, "you're going to have to fight."

Silence fell heavily on the room, darkness beginning to shadow the corners. Soul-bruised, Tristen wrapped her arms around herself knowing there was nothing more to say, nothing more she could do. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.

Pausing, she stared out the empty picture window knowing this was it. _What a way to end it, she thought. I'll never know, and neither will he._

Spinning on her heel, she walked back to Michael one last time. "Live," she whispered fiercely, brushing aside a stray wisp of hair that had fallen into his eyes with shaking fingers, as she bent and kissed his cheek. "Live and love her."

Her fingers trailed across his skin as she straightened, her chin coming up defiantly. Staccato heels crossed the tile floor pausing at the door, as she turned for one last look.

She saw the flinch of his hand as he stirred, and she grinned, her brown eyes crinkling in a sad smile. "And give them hell for me," she whispered.

The door clicked softly as she shut it behind.


	10. Chapter 10

"What do you mean he's not here?" Alex demanded, facing down the other woman at the nursing station. "He was unconscious when I left here three hours ago!"

Narrowing her eyes, the bleached blonde shrugged looking over the red-head with an insolent glance. "Look, I wouldn't know. All I get is the charts and he's not on them."

"Well, did he get transferred? Released?" she questioned, her voice rising. A horrible thought occurred. "Die?" she murmured, looking suddenly stricken.

The older woman paused pursing her lips, a possible flicker of sympathy in her eyes. "I'm not supposed to release medical information except to next of kin."

A heavy sigh slipped out of Alex's lips as she fought the urge to cry. "He doesn't have any next of kin," she muttered.

Grudgingly the nurse, tamped a set of patient files on the desk, not meeting her eyes. She scowled. She didn't care much for the red-head, but she didn't much like the policy either…

"Might try home, chickee. Nobody died here today," she said, going back to filing with a loud clack of her gum.

* * *

Wondering what the heck she was thinking, Alex pounded for the fourth time on the heavy wood door. Okay, maybe the nurse was wrong, she thought. Maybe, she'd just wanted to get rid of her. Maybe, she'd lied. Hang, she couldn't blame her. She knew she was a pain in the butt…

But then, where was he? She refused to believe he was dead. Even the Firm would not be so callous as that she thought. Would they?

Yeah, they would, she thought with a grim twist to her lips. Be just like them…

She slammed her palm harder against the heavy oak door. "Open up, Michael," she yelled. "I'm not going away!" She slumped against the door in frustration.

Only to hear the rasp of the lock opening. "Yeah, I kinda guessed that," Michael rejoined dragging the door open. Guarded blue eyes met hers. "Come on in, Alex."

Stunned, she stared at him. Somehow she hadn't really expected him to be here, much less opening the door. "You're here," she whispered disbelievingly, taking in the deep furrows of pain lining his cheeks.

"Somebody has to be," he muttered wearily, limping back to the sofa. A file of papers sat on the coffee table. "Was there something you wanted, Alex?" he questioned.

_Was there something she wanted? _Anger blazed through her red hot. "Don't you think it'd be nice if you told someone you were leaving the hospital, Michael?" she ranted.

Confused blue eyes looked up at her, the stack of papers in his hand. "Who else would I have told, Alex? The doctors knew I was checking myself out, maybe they weren't happy about it, but they knew. Tristen's been reposted. Who else is there to tell?"

Hurt welled up in her eyes. "Me," she whispered.

"Why, Alex?" he questioned, not meeting her eyes, centering his attention on the papers he held, most anything but her. "You've made it more than clear you think I'm to blame for Gavin's death. I can't imagine you really caring one way or the other."

Shame flushed her cheeks as she contemplated his words. He was right. She had blamed him for Gavin's death. Not because he'd caused it, but because he couldn't stop it.

No more than she could've stopped his, her conscience whispered, reminding her of that long flight back from Menongue, when she'd thought they would lose him; holding him in her arms, feeling his blood on her hands.

He'd saved her life, not once but twice - nearly at the cost of his own. He'd come after her when no one else would.

"I was wrong," she whispered. _Life was too short to waste on regrets, his or hers._

Light blue eyes met hers. "I am sorry, Alex," he said. "Gavin was never supposed to die."

Kneeling beside him, she gave him a sad smile as she wrapped her fingers around his, knowing exactly what she was letting herself in for. "The good guys never are, Michael. I'm just glad you made it back."

"That makes two of us," he muttered, tugging her to him.


	11. Chapter 11

April 17th 1965

Side by side, a tall, broad-shouldered man in white and a slender red-head paced down the hall. Stride for stride she matched him until his fingers reached out for hers, as they turned the corner.

Ahead of them, the head of the committee waited. "So glad of you to join us, Michael," he clipped out. "Ms. Delacorte."

Michael shot Alex an amused glance, sensing the laughter in her green eyes as she met his. Figured Zeus would interrupt their honeymoon and he'd have the gall to be the one acting put out.

"So, you said you had someone I had to meet?" the Deputy Director asked.

Zeus scowled, obviously not thrilled with Alex's presence for this conversation. The only problem was, Archangel's security clearance was essentially as high as his own and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. Tristen had seen to that.

He shot Alex a withering look before continuing. She simply grinned.

Disgusted, he returned his attention to Archangel. "Our design and development team has received the requested funding for the project you asked about. We think we've found the man to head it up."

Michael shot him a startled glance. It'd been his understanding, the project was a longshot. "Oh?" he asked.

Zeus grimaced. "Seems the government is rethinking it's ideas on defense after the whole Bay of Pigs incident and the Cuban missile crisis. Your suggestion came at an opportune time."

"Really?" Michael commented dryly, fighting the urge to throw a triumphant fist in the air. He shot Alex a quick glance, stifling a grin at the pleased look on her face. Zeus might not be pleased, but he sure was.

"Well," he said gesturing with his left hand, "lead on, then. I look forward to meeting this genius of yours."

Glowering at the insolent pup Tristen had saddled him with, Zeus spun on his heel. Ten years his junior and the bloody man thought he ruled the roost, he thought in disgust, preceding him down the hall. It'd be almost worth it to see him fall on his face over this one.

_Helicopters change the face of how war was fought…oh, please._

A lone figure detached himself from the growing shadows at the end of the hall. Dressed in a dark flight suit, he waited.

Stumbling Alex's head swam alarmingly; her vision abruptly hazing with images of blood, death and destruction; her own, others. From where she couldn't say. Stomach churning, she reached out desperately, catching herself on Michael's arm…

Zeus grinned. Here at least was a man who knew his place. He bridged the gap between them, gesturing to the man at his side.

A step behind, Michael offered the pilot his hand, vaguely aware of Alex's fingers tightening on his arm.

"Archangel, I'd like you to meet Dr. Charles Henry Moffet…"


End file.
